


something wicked this way comes

by constellation_composer



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Blood and Injury, Brief character death, Insecurity, M/M, References to Depression, Violence, but hes fine, but who knows, denmark might be depressed??? possibly, iceland might have anxiety????? possibly, insecure denmark, like he dies, sweden and denmark are bio brothers and you can rip this headcanon from my cold dead hands, sweden and finland are the cutest couple holy shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2019-11-21 16:00:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18144347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/constellation_composer/pseuds/constellation_composer
Summary: "Norway’s voice faded as the world went black. There was a moment of nothing, of absolute calm, and then Denmark’s eyes jolted open again, and he was sprawled on the floor of Norway’s hallway, bleeding out on the floor in Norway’s hallway..."-Denmark gets hurt on his way to a Nordic family gathering and now he's bleeding out in the snow.





	1. chapter i

The night air was cold, the wind whipping against his skin with a sharp sting. He limped up the street, making slow progress and hissing painfully each time his weight pressed onto his left ankle. His teeth were digging into his lip, adding to the myriad of bloodstains that were already gracing his skin. “Just a little further,” he muttered, his voice cracking with misery. “They’ll help.” He hoped they would help. If they didn’t… well, if they didn't he was fucked. He couldn’t get a plane back to his own place in this condition, and hospitals were awful idea for personifications; identification was a nightmare. If they wouldn’t help, he’d just have to slump in the snow and wait to die. It wasn’t an appealing idea- sure, he’d revive soon enough, but dying was still hell in and of itself. It was cold and dark and it felt like nothing, like a void, like he was being torn apart and only knew once he woke up as fractures. He didn’t want to die.

The trek up the front stairs was unduly difficult. His entire body was shaking, shuddering all over with cold and pain. Red dots sank into the snow of the porch as he crumpled to his knees, heaving short, hard gasps that burned his throat. The world was spinning violently about him. He needed a minute, just one minute, and then he would go inside they would help and he wouldn’t die. He didn’t want to die.

His hands shook as he pushed himself back up onto his feet, before stumbling and landing straight back on his knees. “Goddammit,” he swore, his voice cracking again. He was freezing, but he was shaking too much to shiver. _“Goddammit.”_ Wasn’t he supposed to be strong?

Should he knock? No, they were laughing loudly in the living room, and he wasn’t sure he was strong enough for them to hear his pitiful plead for help. _God, they’re going to pity me_. He was almost sick at the thought, and for a moment his pride tied him there, kneeling in the snow on Norway’s front porch, letting the wind and the cold and the pain tear him apart, but then his body was wracked with a harsh, burning cough that shuddered from his hair to his numbing toes, and he remembered that he needed help, and he didn’t want to die.

So he struggled back up onto his feet, grasping the door frame for support. He had a key in his pocket, but he didn’t need it. The door was already unlocked. He turned the knob three times, failing the first time because his hand wouldn’t grip it correctly and failing the second because the blood on his hand slipped off the metal. Finally, though, he managed to twist it, pushing the door open and stumbling into the front hall.

The lights were harsh against his eyes, and he whimpered softly, sinking to his knees again. The conversation in the living room hadn’t stopped; they hadn’t heard him come in. He needed to get up. He needed to go in and ask for help, ask them to help him, because he was bruised and broken and bleeding out and please, _I don’t want to die._

“Pass the bottle, will you, Icey?” Finland’s voice was bright. “I need another glass.”

“You’ve already had six,” Sweden reprimanded, but his tone was light and amused. He hadn’t heard Sweden’s voice sound like that in a very long time. They were having a wonderful night, weren’t they? Was it really fair for him to barge in and ruin it like this?

“And why not seven? Isn’t it a lucky number?” Finland retorted, his words slipping in drunkenness. “‘Sides, I never get to drink this much when Denmark is here, he takes it all. C’mon, give the bottle, Icey.”

“Is Denmark coming?” That was Iceland. Denmark wanted to pull himself to his feet, wanted to limp into the living room and tell them that yes, he was coming, he was here, there was just a bit of a detour and he was so sorry to interrupt but he was dying-

But Norway replied to Iceland before Denmark could stand. “He said he would,” the smooth apathetic voice said, tinged with the familiar bitterness that festered in Norway’s head and his hands, that struck out when Denmark touched him and burned in his eyes when they landed on the taller man. “But he’s three hours late, so he probably lied.” Denmark hated when Norway called him a liar. Norway knew that.

His breath leaves his body, and for a second he isn’t sure he’ll be able to bring it back again. The world tilted sharply to the side, and Denmark wanted to pull himself into the room, he wanted to let them take in his pathetic state and pity him, pity him, pity him enough to save his life, but he can’t move. He’s stuck here, slumped against the wall in the front hallway, listening to them talk.

“Good riddance,” Sweden replied, and there was something of a relieved sigh in the words. “I was hoping for a quiet evening, anyhow. Pour me a glass, will you, _käraste_?” He heard Finland give a small giggle.

He let his eyes slip closed. Oh. Maybe- maybe they wouldn’t want to help, after all. After all, a dying man in one’s living room was hardly a quiet evening, no? They wanted a quiet evening. They wanted it to be calm and peaceful and completely lacking of Denmark, especially a bloodied and beaten Denmark who was here because he needed help. How foolish of him, to suppose they would look on him with pity. They would look on him with disgust and throw him back out into the snow.

But still, there was a chance. There had to be a chance. He didn’t want to die.

“You guys aren’t worried at all?” _Oh, Iceland, my sweet, naive boy._ “Did he call any of you?” Yes. Sweden and Norway both have missed calls from him. He’d lay there on the cold ground with the ringing phone for the better part of twenty minutes before he realized they weren’t picking up. They weren’t coming. He had to go to them. Which was fair, of course- there was no need for them to go out of their way when he was strong enough to get there. That would be laziness. Weakness. Denmark was not weak.

“I haven’t checked my phone,” Sweden replied. “I will later.” Later will be too late. If Sweden waits until later, Denmark won’t be able to pick up. Dead men can’t talk on the phone and later, Denmark is going to be dead.

“He called me three times,” Norway chipped in. “About an hour ago, I think. It was probably just him making an excuse. I didn’t pick up.”

“Oh. That’s a little cold.”

Finland laughed again. “Don’t worry about it, Iceland. Denmark will be fine. We’ll call him later and ask why he didn’t come, ok?” But later will be too late. “Want a glass?"

“Don’t you dare give him that-”

Norway’s voice faded as the world went black. There was a moment of nothing, of absolute calm, and then Denmark’s eyes jolted open again, and he was sprawled on the floor of Norway’s hallway, bleeding out on the floor in Norway’s hallway, and Norway was in the other room arguing with Finland and he had no idea that Denmark was here in his hallway because Denmark had been too weak to knock and they hadn’t heard him come in.

He needed to leave. He wasn’t wanted here.

He pushed himself up onto his feet, steadfastly ignoring the pain ringing through his body, and pulled the door open, closing behind him as quietly as he could. He slipped going down the stairs and tumbled, landing in the snow. He should have been concerned that his numb skin couldn’t feel the cold. He wasn’t.

He clawed his way onto his knees; he tried to stand, but the world pitched unsteadily and he plummeted back down. He dragged himself away from the house, away from the hallway, away from how happy Sweden sounded, how happy all of them sounded, away from the family that hated him.

The thought halted him. The house had faded in the distance, the twinkling light of a window all he could see, and he collapsed on the ground, staring upwards to the inky sky.

They hated him. His family hated him.

He’d known already if he was honest with himself, but Denmark was fantastically talented at not being honest with himself, and he’d always discarded the notion as a byproduct of anxiety. Surely they didn’t hate him, he told himself, because they called him sometimes and sometimes they invited over, to gatherings like the one he’d almost gone to tonight, because Finland would greet him with a hug and Sweden would sometimes pat his shoulder and because Iceland would call him _bróðir_ when he was tired or sick or needed comfort. He hadn’t been able to convince himself they loved him (because who could love him when he couldn’t even manage love himself?), but he’d been desperate to believe they tolerated him, maybe even enjoyed his presence sometimes. And he loved them. He had always loved them. Finland, his friend, the most frightening and wonderful person he knew, who always reached out, who always tried to make things brighter and easier to bear; Iceland, the one he’d helped to raise, his little boy, his son, who had called him _farmand_ and crawled in his lap; Sweden, his precious big brother, the boy whose hand he used to tug on and who he would beg for stories; Norway. _God_ , Norway. The boy he’d fought beside, protected- the man he’d fallen in love with. The man that had fallen in love with him once upon a time, or least fallen into something like it, who had held his hand and his face and kissed him gently and called Iceland their son, their son. The man whose hand had once held a ring with the name Matthias inscribed along the inside, just like the ring inscribed Lukas hung on a chain around Denmark’s neck. Norway didn’t know that Denmark still had the ring. He’d be furious. That was a relic from a long, long time ago. But time, in all had changed, had never taken his love for them. He would always love them. His family hated him.

He didn’t want his family to hate him. He would rather die.

-

Norway woke up with a headache. “So we drank last night, did we?” he muttered to himself, screwing his eyes shut tight. _Probably Denmark’s fault_ , he thought. The aftertaste of aquavit lingered in his mouth. He blinked once, twice, three times, letting his eyes adjust to the light. Even so, the morning sun felt like a shaft through his head. He pushed himself out of bed, stumbling over the mirror and trying to straighten himself out a bit. He was wearing his clothes from last night, shoes and all. He wrinkled his nose and stripped, changing into sweatpants and a white t-shirt. Fuck presentability, he was hungover and no one but his family would see him anyway. He absentmindedly wondered if Denmark would still find his bed head cute.

The answer was no, he was perfectly aware. Denmark had moved on from that sort of thing a long time ago.

Norway’s lips tilted into a frown. It was too early for this. He needed ibuprofen, food, and about fourteen cups of coffee before he began thinking about Denmark. The ring weighed heavy in his pocket- he ought to get a chain of some sort and wear it under his clothes. At this point, he might even be able to start wearing it on his finger again. He doubted Denmark would recognize it after so many years.

But it would hurt seeing it on his hand every day. A chain was a good idea.

“Hey,” Iceland greeted sleepily as Norway wandered into the kitchen. “Sweden and Finland are still asleep.” Norway nodded in acknowledgement, making a beeline for the coffee maker. Luckily, it was already brewed, and he sighed in satisfaction as he took a sip, taking a seat at the table across from his brother. Iceland was staring down into his mug, looking troubled.

Norway regarded him for a moment before speaking. “Something wrong, little brother?” Iceland pulled a face at the moniker, but didn’t comment, just shook his head. The denial was spectacularly unconvincing. “I don’t believe you.”

Iceland sighed. “It’s silly.” Norway frowned, taking another sip of his coffee, waiting expectantly for Iceland to continue. “It’s just- Finland suggested last night that I call Denmark and ask why he didn’t come, so I called this morning, but he wouldn’t pick up. I called him three times because that’s how many times he called you and I thought it’d be funny, but he didn’t answer any of them and normally he picks up the second or third ring. I’m worried, that’s all.”

“Oh.” Norway could feel the edges of his lips getting tugged downwards. He hadn’t recalled that Denmark hadn’t come last night. Denmark always came to family gatherings. Was it because it was at Norway’s house? Had he finally tired of him? Did he know what Norway still thought of him, how desperately the younger man clung to the past?

Norway discarded his thoughts immediately. _Calm down_ , he thought sternly to himself. _Keep your head on, there’s no need to panic_. “He’s probably still asleep,” he said. Iceland nodded shortly.

“Yeah, probably.”

There was a long stretch of silence as the brothers sat there, each lost in his own thoughts, drinking their coffee. Upstairs, they could hear Finland and Sweden getting ready. Iceland was staring absentmindedly out the window, watching the snow drift down. Norway stared into his coffee, resolutely not thinking about the man whose name was sitting in his pocket. The two of them rarely talked much, and the silence was familiar. It was comfortable.

“Norway?” Iceland’s voice was small, and Norway’s gaze darted up, locking on his brother immediately. The younger boy swallowed hard and stared down at the table. “This is a dumb question. I think I’m thinking too much.”

“What is it, little brother?” Norway replied, and Iceland wrinkled his nose; his expression smoothed out again, though, becoming as stone-like as the man across from him.

“Do you ever wonder,” Iceland began, and then cleared his throat and looked away again. “Do you ever think that maybe Den doesn’t really want to spend time with us?”

Yes.

“Why do you ask?” Norway’s voice might have trembled a bit, just the tiniest bit, as he replied because he was so goddamn afraid of that being true. Even with the ring off his finger, even after years of a cold bed and cold lips, he worried that Denmark would someday cut him off completely, would leave him alone and without even a whisper of that long ago happiness. He needed Denmark to stay. He needed Denmark to be happy and to be alright. He would die if Denmark ever left him and he was sure of it, he was certain beyond a doubt that he could never be complete without his Dane at his side.

Iceland shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s been turning up less and less, lately. And-” he cut off and shook his head.

“And what?”

Iceland sighed. “It’s dumb.” Norway raised his eyebrows and waited. “He’s… never told me his name. His real name. All of you have, but Denmark… he’s just always been Denmark. I know it’s stupid and that’s not something I can ask from him, but it hurts a little bit that he doesn’t trust me with it.”

Norway nodded slowly. “If it’s any condolence,” he replied, trying desperately to keep his tone apathetic, “he refused to tell me his name until he proposed to me.”

Iceland laughed a little. “Like abstinence? I didn’t know Denny was such a Christian.” Norway’s lips twitched toward a smile. They sat in silence for a moment longer.

“He wasn’t always just Denmark to you,” Norway said, finally. He wasn’t sure why he said it. Nostalgia was hovering over his judgement, blurring his sense. Iceland’s jaw tightened.

“He’s still not just Denmark to you.”

Norway decided it was better not to answer.

Sweden and Finland came down a couple of minutes later, Sweden taking a cup of coffee and sitting down and Finland bustling about, having decided to make breakfast for the four of them. “It’ll be ready in just a second,” he said cheerfully. “Su-san, _rakas_ , could you bring our bags to the car? I always hate leaving the little ones home alone.” Sweden nodded silently, finishing his coffee and putting the mug in the dishwasher before going upstairs to get their things.

“I’m sure they’re fine,” Iceland said, rolling his eyes. “I doubt Ladonia’s even left his room since you left.”

“You could always bring them if you fret so much,” Norway added, pouring himself another cup of coffee. Finland shook his head.

"Please, we all know these are just glorified drinking parties. I don’t doubt that my boys would jump at a chance to join in and they’re still too young for that.” That was true, so the brothers fell silent, watching the Finnish man cook.

There was a crash from the front hallway.

The Nordics in the kitchen froze, glancing at each other, the house uncomfortably quiet aside from the sound of Finland’s breakfast-in-progress. The violet-eyed man bit his lip nervously. “ _Rakas?_ ” He called. There was no reply. “Su-san, are you alright?” Another beat of silence.

Sweden appeared in the doorway, his face white and his large hands shaking almost imperceptibly. “There is… an issue,” he stated, his tone calm but his voice strangled in the slightest way. Finland frowned, crossing the kitchen to take his husband’s hands. “The hallway.” Norway and Iceland glance at each other and then push back their chairs, abandoning the coffee mugs on the table. Norway pushed his way past the others- it was his house, after all- and out of the kitchen, emerging into the front hallway.

He froze. Behind him, Finland gave a strangled gasp.

It looked like murder in the hallway. Sweden and Finland’s bags were on the floor where Sweden must have dropped them, a few feet away from a large, drying pool of blood. One wall had a smear as if a hand had streaked down it, and the doorknob was the colour of rust. Norway stepped closer, cringing internally as the smell of iron hit his nose.

“Who-” Iceland couldn’t finish his sentence. Norway edged carefully around the large pool near the door, hesitating for a moment and shuddering before grasping the blood-stained doorknob and pushing it open, stepping out onto the porch. The cold collided violently with his bare skin as the door closed behind him, but he was too preoccupied with confusion to shiver. He scanned the landscape, searching for any sort of clue as to where the blood had come from- there. Right in front of his porch, at the bottom of the steps, was another bloodstain, half covered by the light morning snow.

The door opened behind him. “Here,” came Iceland’s voice, and something was thrust into his hands. “Wear a coat.” He almost laughed, because isn’t the older brother supposed to be the one to do that, but the blood on the ground is a little too disconcerting for humour.

“Someone was in my house,” he murmured, slipping the coat on. He waves his hand discreetly to bring his shoes from his room to his feet. Sweden stepped up to his other side and lay a hand on his shoulder. “Someone was bleeding out in my house.”

(He’s suddenly struck with an awful thought, with a terrible thought, and immediately he discarded it because it was foolish. It was just the anxiety of the situation getting to him, and it was impossible anyway because he would have known. He would have known.)

“How did they come in without any of us noticing?” Finland asked. His fingers were tightly entangled with Sweden’s. Norway shrugged hopelessly.

“We didn’t lock the door,” Iceland replied in a low whisper. “We left it open for Denmark.” Oh. There’s blood on the ground, red stains in the snow, and Norway stepped past his family, beginning to follow it. “Are you sure you should do that?” Iceland asked anxiously, but Norway didn’t answer, continuing through the snow. He heard them begin to follow.

It wasn’t a long trek, but it felt like one. It was hard to breathe, his throat too tense to swallow properly, and his eyes stung with the cold. Iceland was right next to him- it had been far too long since Iceland was this close to him, and he couldn’t help but wish it was under less frightening circumstances. The trek, in the end, is far too short, and Norway wished for half a second he had never taken it, because at the end of the trek he spots someone crumpled on the ground, someone tall and wearing a black coat is crumpled to the ground, snow dusting over blond hair, and Norway stopped walking.

No.

This wasn’t real. It couldn’t- that couldn’t be him, because if he had been bleeding out in Norway’s front hallway then Norway would have known. It was someone else, someone else with that same coat and that same stupid hairstyle, just someone else, not his Denmark. Anyone else.

Sweden made a strange noise halfway between a gasp and strangled cat, freezing in place beside Norway. Iceland whimpered softly and grasped Norway’s hand, burying his face into his brother’s shoulder and whispering, “please, God, no.”

Please, God, no.

Sweden was the first to step forward, kneeling down beside the prone and frozen body and rolling it gently over. Norway’s breath caught in his throat, his heart seizing up immediately in his chest because it is. It is. Oh, God.

“No,” he whispered. “No, no, no.” It was the only word he could remember. Everything had slipped from his mind, leaving him cold and fearful and staring at that cold and quiet face. “No.” His voice was so numb. “No, you idiot.” Denmark, his Denmark.

Sweden’s head was lowered, his hands brushing gently over his brother’s face. “He’s dead.” His voice was low and empty. Finland crossed quietly to his husband’s side, laying a hand on Sweden’s shoulder.

“He’ll wake up soon,” the violet-eyed man reminded them. “Let’s bring him back to the house so that he’s comfortable when he does, alright?” Sweden nodded slowly, gathering his brother into his arms and standing. Norway gritted his teeth and turned away pointedly, refusing to look at the body. Iceland gripped his hand bruisingly tight.

Denmark was dead.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so this story is actually going to be longer and also darker than originally planned, i'm so sorry
> 
> there's some idealization of death in this chapter?? not really that much but if you're sensitive to that sort of thing I'd recommend avoiding it
> 
> also next chapter is going to be solid dennor i swear but i got carried away with my viking brothers here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is sort of short and very bad im sorry

The cotton was rough against days of unshaved stubble. He groaned softly, feeling an ache seeping through his skin, making his very bones burn. His fingers twitched once, twice. His eyes wouldn't open. Why wouldn't they open? He could hear gentle, slow breathing from next to him. Someone sleeping?

“Lukas?” he mumbled sleepily, rolling his head to the side. “Luke, I’m cold…” There was no reply, but the breathing sounded shallower. He tried to frown, but the muscles in his face refused to obey. Where was Luke? He tried vainly to open his eyes again.

The breathing next to the bed shifted; there was a yawn. Matthias let his fingers twitch again, aching for Lukas’s hand in his. “Oh,” the voice whispered. It was hoarse with exhaustion, but it was Lukas, he could tell. “Oh, you're awake, aren't you, Denmark?”

Denmark.

Lukas never called him by his formal name. Why-

Oh. _Oh_. Memories whizzed through his mind, overwhelming him with sudden recollection. Losing Berwald, losing Lukas, losing Eirikur, losing himself; losing his mind. Meeting after meeting of being ignored and snapped at, day after day of crumbling apart under what he knew they thought of him. Year after year of carrying his cross built from old mistakes, even though his legs had long given out. Being invited, being excited, being beaten, bleeding, crumpling to the ground in Lukas’s front hall and watching his life rush out of him. Being unwanted. Being unneeded. Hated.

His family hated him.

“Yeah,” he replied, his voice flat. “I'm awake.” He didn't want to be. He wanted to go back to sleep, back to that blissful void of absolutely nothing, and stay there until they forgot all about him and what he'd done and forgot they hated him. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to be gone.

A hand reached out, smoothing his hair. “You died.”

“I remember.” Their voices were equally apathetic, like they were playing a game of chess: who cared more? Denmark wasn't sure.

“What happened?”

Denmark kept his eyes closed and turned his head away, trying to keep his breathing as steady as possible. He didn't want to talk about it. He couldn't talk about it. Lukas’s hands drifted over his shoulders, pulling the blanket up further. “You said you were cold,” the Norwegian murmured, his hands lingering for just the slightest second longer than they needed to. Denmark nodded. “Look at me.” Denmark didn't. “Denmark, look at me.”

“Go away,” Denmark replied, trying not to whine but still ending up sounding like a petulant child. “I'm tired, Luke, I don't wanna talk right now.” Norway drew in a sharp breath. He hadn’t called him that name in a long time, had he?

“Den-”

“Go away.” The hand landed on his shoulder again, and he pulled away. “I want to sleep.” Silence.

“Of course.” Norway’s voice was cold and empty again. “Sleep well, Denmark.”

The door clicked closed, and Denmark opened his eyes. He was in the guest room, the one he always slept in when he stayed over. The vivid blue of the walls was shocking to his tired eyes, and he cringed, a twinge of pain twisting in his head. He lightly gripped the bedsheets in his hands and swallowed hard. He could hear the murmur of voices outside the door; Norway and… was that Sweden? Odd. Wouldn't he have gone home already? Sealand and Ladonia needed their parents back. Denmark let his head roll to the side. He must be hearing the voice wrong.

“Goddammit,” he hissed, bunching the sheets into his fists tightly. “Damn it all.” He wanted to go back to sleep. He pushed himself up, roughly shoving the blankets off of himself. The voices outside the door paused. “Go away!” he yelled. The cold of the ring against his chest felt like it was burning. “Jesus,” he muttered, reaching up for the chain and yanking it off. He regarded the ring in his hand for half a second, reading the name again, feeling the familiar weight in his hand.

_He hates you._

Denmark growled lowly and flung the ring against the wall. It made a small craking thud and landed on the floor, rolling away under the dresser. “Denmark?” someone called from outside. Finland. Maybe it _had_ been Sweden earlier- why was the happy couple still hanging around?

“I said go away,” he ground out, his voice rough with anger. There was a pregnant pause, and the door crept open. Denmark turned away, stalking to the window. The sunlight reflecting from the snow made his head ache, but he couldn’t trust himself to turn around until his breathing had slowed. He hated being angry- he hated himself when he was angry. They couldn’t see him like this. They couldn’t have another reason to hate him.

“Denmark.”

Oh, they were _fucking_ with him. He let out a long, slow breath, trying not to start yelling right then and there. His hands tightened into fists, his nails digging painfully into his palms. The sharp twinge made his breath hitch, and the moment of breathlessness calmed him just a little.

“Sweden,” he replied, trying to sound as amicable as possible. “Lovely morning, isn’t it?” There was another bout of silence, and he heard Sweden move closer to him. He forced his back not to stiffen and prised his face into a smile. “How many mornings did I miss?” How many lucky, lucky days did these bastards get to live without him?

“Seven. We’ve been worried sick about you.” Denmark couldn’t help himself from snorting. Fat chance. Sweden hadn’t worried about him in a long, long time; not since they were little kids, scrambling around the dirt, trying to find their way in the world. He liked to think that Sweden had cared for him at the beginning of the Union, pretend that it was those mistakes that drove his brother to despise him so bitterly, but he knew that was deluding himself. No, Sweden hadn’t cared for Denmark in a long, long time. “Don’t do that.”

Denmark huffed, spinning around. “Do what?” Sweden towered over him, even after all this time, with eyes narrowed and arms crossed sternly. He felt like a child again, when Sve would scold him for sneaking too many snacks or playing too many games, back before he really learned how to wield an axe and kept almost whacking people with it. He shrank down into himself- those were the days, weren’t they?

Sweden’s eyebrows are knit together tightly. “Don’t lie to yourself. We were worried.” Denmark looked down at his feet, avoiding the taller man’s gaze. “Norway is going crazy. He missed you.”

Denmark laughed softly. “As if,” he replied bitterly, still staring at the floor. “He hasn’t called me in four months. He didn’t miss me when I died, and he wouldn’t miss me if I didn’t wake up.” It was a dark thought, and it burned his brain, but it tasted true. He raised his eyes to meet his brother’s. “And neither would you. Get out, Berwald-” he spat the other’s name like a curse, “-and leave me alone. I want nothing to do with you.”

Sweden’s eyes darkened. “Excuse me?” he growled, his hands falling in fists to his sides. “Say that again.”

“I said get out!” Denmark shouted, raising his arms to push the taller man away, but Sweden caught his wrists in a crushing grip. He tried to yank away, but the Swede held fast, standing straight and unwavering even as Denmark struggled. “Let me go!”

“Stop acting like a child,” Sweden scolded, and Denmark aimed a kick at his knee. Sweden grunted slightly in pain, his grip loosening, and Denmark jerked away, stumbling backwards into the dresser with a crash. Sweden crossed the room in two quick strides and grabbed him by the shoulders. “Mathias, I said stop.”

“Don’t call me that!” Denmark tried to pull away. “You have no fucking right-” a gloved hand clapped over his mouth, keeping him from saying anything else. Sweden’s face was dark with anger, his eyes filled with such rage that Denmark couldn’t have kept struggling if he tried. He was kept in place, pinned like a butterfly by the absolute wrath radiating from every bit of his brother’s being. He whined, trying to pull away, but Sweden didn’t let him move.

“I am your brother, Mathias,” Sweden hissed, his tone low and rough. “I have every fucking right to call you by the name I gave you.” He tightened his grip, his eyes narrowing further. “You have no right to accuse me of not caring about you. I don’t know what you’re thinking, _lillebror_ , but stop. You’re not too old for me to put you in your place.” Denmark tried to pull away again. _Please shut up-_ “Don’t be an idiot. You know we love you.” His eyes burned, and he tried pathetically to rip away again. “You knew we were here in the house seven nights ago, Mathias. And instead of coming to us, you left and let yourself die.” Sweden’s grip relaxed slightly, his shoulders dropping. “You idiot,” he murmured, and he took his hand away from Denmark’s mouth, looping his arms around his younger brother and crushing him against his chest. “You let yourself die.”

Denmark buried his face in Sweden’s shoulder like a child, biting his lip to repress a sob. He knotted his fingers tightly in the older man’s coat. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, his voice muffled. “I thought it was for the best.”

“A lost life is never for the best,” Sweden reminded him, a lesson they'd both heard all their lives and learned firsthand far too many times. Denmark nodded.

“I know that.”

“Then why?”

His throat was stuck with emotion, and he coughed, pulling away and fixing his eyes on the floor again. His hands twitched and he drew in a slow, shaky breath. _Don’t be an idiot. You know we love you._ What a beautiful lie.

“Mathias.” Sweden’s voice was low. Demanding. He wanted an answer, but Denmark had none to give.

“Please don’t make me talk about this,” he whispered, feeling his eyes sting with hot tears. “Please don’t-” he choked back a sob. “Please just let me be alone. I want to go back to sleep.”

Sweden took a long moment to answer, and Denmark worried at his lip, waiting for the taller man to leave. He didn’t. “You weren’t asleep, Mathias. You were dead.”

Denmark laughed, but it sounded crazed, even to him. He ran a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes, and turned away. “Then just go away and let me die, bastard,” he spat, but the effect was somewhat ruined by the thickness of his voice, and he fell back to pleading. “Please. It was so nice. I don’t want to be awake anymore.” Sweden was silent. Mathias breathed in and out, in and out, leaning his forehead against the wall. The silence was hollow. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Footsteps behind him. “Why are you sorry?” Sweden sounded exhausted. “I’m sorry, _lillebror_. I didn’t know-”

“Know what?” Denmark interrupted. “You didn’t know I was upset? You didn’t know I was weak? You didn’t know that it- that it hurt when you pushed me away and called me useless? You didn’t know that I heard the things you say about me?” He gave up on self-control, letting his tears run free. “You-you didn’t know that I know-” he turned around, pressing his back against the wall, gasping for breath halfway between laughing and crying. He could barely see Sweden through his blurred vision. “That I know you hate me, _storebror?_ You didn’t that I know that? Don’t you know how much that hurts me? I know you hate me but please, please don’t make me suffer like this. I can’t stand to have you stand here and lie to my face because you pity me, Berwald, I really can’t.” His voice cracked. “I can’t do this, Ber, please. I need-” his voice hitched. “I need to go back to sleep. I-I need to die.”

There were hands on his shoulders, holding onto him gently. He let out another shuddering sob, stumbling blindly forward into Sweden’s arms again. “I’m sorry,” he whimpered. “I’m so sorry for everything about me.”

“Stop apologizing, you idiot,” Sweden replied. His grip tightened. “You’re my brother, Mathias,” he continued. His voice was hollow with something like fear. “I love you.” Denmark felt tears in his hair. “You’re my brother,” Sweden repeated. “I love you.”

Denmark just clung to him and cried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry??? i tried
> 
> please review


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> norway and denmark talk. (tw for use of the word f*g, its not by either of them)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first off im so sorry this took so long, norway was really difficult to write for some reason?? im sorry if hes ooc in this his emotions are running HIGH
> 
> still im really sorry its been like two weeks oof

“Sweden told me what you said.”

Denmark had been sitting on the bed with his head in his hands, but at the voice he jolted, sitting up straight. Norway had come back. The ring, which he’d retrieved a couple minutes ago from under the dresser, suddenly felt heavy against his chest. He wrinkled his nose, shaking his head, and looked away out the window.

“Of course he did.” He tried to beat the bitterness from his voice, he really did, but it slipped in anyway. Good old Sweden, huh? “What do you want, Norway?”

The younger man didn’t answer for a long moment. He crossed the room, his footsteps quiet, and took a seat on the bed next to Denmark. “You know,” he began, pulling his legs up to his chest and resting his chin on his knees, “I cried.” Denmark blinked, his gaze jerking over to Norway’s small form, curled up on the bed beside him. He itched to reach out and pull him into his chest, but he knew it would be unappreciated, so he settled for staring. Norway cleared his throat and looked away. “When we found you. You-” he cut himself off, sneaking a look over at Denmark.

The Dane coughed, looking away again. “Oh.” He looked back over, locking eyes with Norway. “I didn’t know.” He gave a short laugh. “I probably should have figured you’d find me. But it never crossed my mind.” He shook his head, leaning back on his hands, giving Norway a sardonic smile. “Bit of a shock waking up in a bed, not the snow.”

Norway looked away. “You asked for me. When you woke up.”

“Yeah. I-” Denmark let his head fall backwards, staring up at the ceiling. “I sort of forgot what year it was.”

“You wanted me.” Norway’s voice was quiet. Denmark’s heart stuttered to a stop, his throat clenching, and he swallowed hard, staring unblinkingly at the ceiling.

“Yeah, I did,” he replied, forcing the words out through the emotion clogging his throat. “I wanted you for a long time, Norway.”

Norway looked away, his voice getting even quieter. “What about this morning?” A chill ran down Denmark’s spine. “When you were living in the past, did you still feel like that? Did you want me?” A heavy silence hung in the room. Denmark’s breath hitched, and he wanted to say yes- _yes, Lukas, of course I did, I always have and I always will_ \- but the words were caught in his throat, and the silence dragged on. “I’m sorry,” Norway finally said. His voice was strained just slightly. “It was a stupid question. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No,” Denmark forced out. “It wasn’t stupid.” He reached out hesitantly, laying a hand atop Norway’s. “Would you want me to?”

Norway stared at their hands, at the soft contact, for a long moment, and then he ripped away. Denmark jerked back like he’d been burned. Shit. “I know that you don’t,” the younger man replied calmly. He stared at the door so that Denmark couldn’t see the suspicious gleam in his eyes. “So it doesn’t matter.”

Denmark coughed. “Right.” He breathed out a long, slow breath. “Of course. I’m sorry.” Norway’s lips trembled, and Denmark frowned. “Fuck.”

“Language,” Norway muttered half-heartedly. Denmark snorted.

They sat in silence for a while. Norway stretched out again like a cat, lying down on the bed, and Denmark stayed hunched over onto his knees, staring at the floor. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. It was just the sound of two people that knew each other too well to have anything to say. Norway knew that Denmark wanted to apologize _(he doesn’t think he deserves it but that’s okay it’s okay he’ll just be better it’ll be okay)_. Denmark knew that Norway had already accepted it _(but there’s a voice in the back of his head saying that norway will never accept his apologies, norway will never accept him again)._ Instead of saying it, they let the unspoken agreement linger in the air and relished in the familiarity of just being with each other.

“We haven’t seen each other much recently,” Norway said finally. Denmark’s laugh was bitter.

“Oh, you think?”

Norway flinched. “I-”

“Was busy,” Denmark finished for him, his voice hard and cold. “Or was mad. Or didn’t want to put up with me. Or had heard one too many comments again about how close we are and decided the rumors had to stop. I don’t care why you don’t talk to me anymore, Norway, I really don’t. If you think it’s for the best, that’s good enough for me.” He flopped backwards onto the bed, throwing his arms out to the sides. One of them landed on Norway’s chest, and he hesitated for a second before taking it in his own.

“I was going to say I’m sorry,” he replied softly. “It’s not for the best. Maybe for you, but-” he stopped and sucked breath through his teeth. “Not for me,” he finished quietly, staring intently at their entwined fingers. Denmark blinked. Norway glanced at him. “They still make comments to you?” he asked.

Denmark sighed. “Yeah. Every meeting someone makes a joke about us sharing a room in the hotel.”

“Oh.” Norway tugged his hand closer. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright. They don’t mean anything by it.” It just hurts, because he wished so badly that he could give them something to gossip about. He wanted his husband back, more than he wanted to eat, more than he wanted to drink, more than he even wanted to breathe.

That was a dark, selfish train of thought, and Denmark stopped it before it could go any further. He didn’t deserve Norway; he never had and he certainly didn’t now, not with the sin inscribed into every inch of him. Norway was far from perfect, but he was nothing short of flawless in Denmark’s eyes. “I just wish…” he stopped himself. “I wish they would stop.”  
“I’m sorry,” Norway said again, and Denmark’s heart broke a little bit more, because Norway sounded sorry, and all he wanted was for Norway to be happy. He wanted Norway, more than he had ever wanted anyone or anything, but he needed Norway to be happy, and he couldn’t do that. Norway needed something far, far better than him.

He sighed and tightened his grip on the younger man’s hand. “Don’t be sorry. ‘S not your fault.” It was Denmark’s fault. It was all always Denmark’s fault. “‘S mine. I shouldn’t be so clingy, they all take it the wrong way.”

“It’s not your fault. You should be able to cling to me as much as you want, as long as I’m allowing you to.” Norway rolled onto his side, reaching out to touch Denmark’s shoulder. He missed, his hand landing on the taller man’s chest, but he didn’t move it. He just spread out his fingers and felt Denmark’s heartbeat under his hand. “And I am allowing you to. I like it.” Denmark chuckled, pulling Norway closer to him. Norway pressed up against his side, tucking his head into Denmark’s shoulder, breathing him in, feeling the warmth. “I missed you,” he whispered, his voice raw in way that Denmark hadn’t heard in a long time. “It felt like a part of me had been taken out.”

“I’m sorry,” Denmark murmured in return, and he dared to press a kiss against the top of Norway’s head.

Norway took in a long breath, and it shuddered as he released it. “You knew we were here.”

“Yes. I did.”

“You knew I was here.” Norway’s voice had dropped so low that he could hardly hear it, but it was red with pain, and that made Denmark’s heart stutter in regret. He hurt Norway. He hurt his Norway.

_Monster,_ his mind whispered, and he flinched. Norway frowned, holding his hand tighter.

“I heard you talking,” Denmark replied quietly. “I thought- I don’t know. You seemed happier without me.”

There was a very long moment of silence. Norway’s hand curled into a loose fist on his chest, clutching his shirt, and he buried his head deeper in Denmark’s shoulder.

(he hurt denmark. he hurt his denmark. he was a _monster._ )

Denmark heard him sob.

“Shit,” he whispered. “Shit, Nor, I’m sorry.” He gathered the shaking Norway in his arms, pulling him close, burying his face in the other’s hair. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Norway just clung to him and cried.

“I love you,” Denmark murmured. “I know that doesn’t help, Nor, but I love you so much, I love you and I can’t live without you, okay? I thought-” he paused, but decided half-assing this wasn’t worth it, so he tightened his grip and kept talking. “I thought you hated me, and I couldn’t stand that, Nor. I know you don’t love me anymore but I need you to not hate me and I heard you guys talking and the guys that jumped me, they saw me call you, they were smoking and they saw and they laughed at me before they walked away, saying that it was because I was unloved. They called me a useless fag and said they couldn’t go on letting someone like me loose in the world and-” he paused to draw in a shuddering breath. Norway had gone still in his arms. “I can’t live with you hating me. I can’t live with the others hating me either, but especially not you, Nor. I love you, and I’ll never be able to love anyone else the way I love you, I’ll never-” he cut himself off. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I love you, I love you so much I can’t even get rid of the damn ring, I love you like I can’t breathe, and you can’t stand me, and I’m so sorry for that, Norway.”

Norway was silent and still.

And then, Norway was pulling gently from his grasp and reaching up and cupping his face and whispering, “It’s okay, Denny, it’ll be okay,” and Norway was leaning their foreheads together and Norway was reaching into his pocket and pulling something out and Norway was whispering, “See, Denny? See, I have mine too, I couldn’t get rid of it either,” and Denmark was making some kind of noise between a laugh and a sob (when had he started crying?) and then Norway was holding his face again and pulling their lips together and _yes._

After two hundred years of a cold bed and cold lips and a cold ring around his neck, Norway was here again, Norway was his again, and Denmark sighed into the kiss because it was everything he had been longing for. His hand settled on Norway’s hip, and his other on the back on the smaller man’s head, pulling him closer, closer, like he’d die ~~again~~ if they broke apart.

After two hundred years, Denmark’s heart began to beat in earnest again.

He was going to be okay.


End file.
